


A Private Confrontation

by tothewillofthepeople



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Greek Mythology, Alternate Universe - Mythology, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Non-Binary Enjolras, Non-binary character, Pining, accidental misgendering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-16
Updated: 2015-10-16
Packaged: 2018-04-26 15:43:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5010427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tothewillofthepeople/pseuds/tothewillofthepeople
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Feuilly speaks up for the first time. “What you have to understand is that we exist solely to inspire art and literature– and science, though not as it’s known now.” He spreads his hands to indicate the entire world. “It isn’t plausible to assume that we’re in some way responsible for every possible work in those fields. Does humanity need us? Yes. Can they still function without us? Yes.”</p><p>“So we go along living our lives and knowing that people all around us, who see or hear us or know us, are inspired,” Bossuet says thoughtfully. “It’s a beautiful thought, for the most part. But we have no way of knowing everything we influence. No one dedicates their work to the muses anymore.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Private Confrontation

**Author's Note:**

> Is this written in the same style as [Witchboy?](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4051375) Yes it is. Am I ever going to abandon this writing style? Probably not.

It's gotten to the point where Grantaire can predict what will set off his newest adventure. There’s probably a formula somewhere that dictates where and when he’ll meet his match (he’s avoided battlefields and royal courts for centuries). Recently it’s been harder and harder to hide from his destiny, but he can just tell sometimes.

It’s raining the first time he meets Enjolras.

They both live in the city, on the same small street, and Grantaire is cursing the rain when he runs into another man and knocks him to the sidewalk.

And Grantaire almost recognizes him. He’s good at playing his own life like a video game and it’s raining, and this small blond has a perfect profile, but Grantaire likes the city _so much_ that he turns around and runs away without saying a word. Because fuck fate, and fuck destiny, he isn’t looking forward to this one.

The rain is heavy and cold and makes his hair stick to his face in wet tendrils. He probably looks lost and and freezing and sad and with his luck this little slice of life will end up in a depressing indie film at the festival in Cannes next year. He can hear the pretty blond yell after him angrily, but he doesn’t turn around.

By the time he gets to his apartment with Bossuet he feels like he’s been drowned. Again. He knocks on the door and tries not to shiver. 

“Of all of the things I could have plausibly inspired,” Bossuet announces as he opens the door, “I still think Calvin and Hobbes is my unequivocal favorite.” Then he notices the state Grantaire is in and blinks in surprise. “What happened to you?”

Grantaire pushes his way into the apartment. “But we had so much fun with Shakespeare,” he says instead. “His work is still some of my favorite. The Greeks can go fuck themselves.”

“Shakespeare liked you more than me and you know it,” Bossuet declares and puts his hands on his hips. “Why do you look like you’re reenacting your death on the Titanic?”

“That’s harsh, man,” Grantaire says as he presses a hand to his chest in mock hurt. “It’s raining out and I got caught in it, that’s all.” He starts to pull off his sodden clothes.

“With the amount that this happens to you it seems like you would learn to carry an umbrella around by now,” Bossuet says casually. He disappears into the bedroom for a moment to fetch dry clothes. “I love umbrellas. Truly stellar invention.”

“It would just break,” Grantaire grumbles; cold water is dripping down his narrow chest. He takes the offered sweatpants and shirt. “I ran into someone on the street.”

Bossuet raises his eyebrows and perches on the arm of the couch. “Do tell.”

Grantaire grimaces. “I knocked him over, panicked, and ran away.” He pulls the dark gray shirt over his head and breathes in the soft scent of the fabric. “I like this city too much to stick around anyone with a face like that.”

“So he was pretty.”

“He felt _important._ And pretty, I’ll give him that. The shape of his face, the line of his jaw…” Grantaire shakes his head. He had been staring at the wall for that little speech. He scowls and pulls the sweatpants on.

Bossuet shifts minutely and tugs at his wristbands. “You, ah, you do realize that this doesn’t mean the end, right?” He says. “You have no idea how this one will play out. Avoiding him won’t do you any favors.”

“Statistically speaking this end horribly,” Grantaire shoots back and collapses on the couch. “And I just– I want to feel like I have a say in it.”

Bossuet slides off the arm of the couch and lands next to him so he can throw an arm around Grantaire’s shoulders. “I know,” he says quietly. “You were dealt a worse hand than most of us.” His grip on Grantaire’s shoulder tightens. “But you have lived beautiful, happy lives before, and you will again, and you will now.”

Grantaire closes his eyes, turns his face into Bossuet’s shoulder, and stays silent.

*

He runs into the blond again when it’s sunny outside. Bossuet, two weeks after the fateful rainy day, decides to take Grantaire along to meet a friend of his from the University.

Bossuet’s friend is in the park. His name is Joly, and Bossuet calls him Jolllly, and within five minutes the pair of them have Grantaire laughing so hard he can’t breathe

“Come with me to the café!” Joly cries after a short while. “I’m meeting my study group there and you ought to come!”

“Listening to your sparkling conversation is a study in itself,” Grantaire says with a smile, “but we’ll join you. Though I’m no student.”

As soon as they enter the café, barely ten minutes later, Grantaire knows he’s made a mistake. The gorgeous familiar blond is standing just inside the door; Grantaire stops in his tracks. Before the blond can even turn his head, however, Grantaire catches sight of the boy standing next to him and he cries out, “Clio!”

(Oceans will rise, empires will fall, Grantaire will die as many times as he needs to, but he will never fail to recognize one of his own.)

The man spins around– gods, he’s got so many freckles this time– sees Grantaire, and yells out, “MEL!” before diving at him.

Grantaire staggers backwards with an armful of his exuberant friend. Bossuet, who is entering the café at that moment, lets out a joyous shout and throws himself into the hug. They go crashing to the floor.

“What are the odds!” Bossuet is yelling as they try to untangle themselves from each other while laughing and pounding each other on the back. Grantaire is smiling so widely that it hurts– he isn’t used to getting a break like this. He thought finding Bossuet was more than enough. 

His thoughts grind to a halt as he straightens up and comes face-to-face with the blond. “Do people always end up on the ground around you?” The shorter man asks with a scowl. Gods, he’s tiny; Grantaire could rest the point of his chin on the crown of that perfect head. He swallows.

“Have you met each other already?” Clio asks in surprise. Grantaire shoots him a look.

“Saying that we met is putting it kindly,” he says quietly.

The blond crosses his arms. “You knocked me onto the pavement in the middle of a thunderstorm and then ran away.” Bossuet and Clio both make choking noises and Grantaire flinches.

“You remember that?” He asks weakly.

Clio intervenes. “Enjolras, this is–”

“Grantaire,” Grantaire interrupts. Enjolras doesn’t seem appeased.

“Feuilly called you Mel,” he says suspiciously.

Grantaire shoots his friend a look. _Feuilly?_ The redhead shrugs. “Yeah, and I called him Clio,” Grantaire says as he looks back at Enjolras. “Just a nickname, and not one I’m fond of.”

“This is Bossuet!” Joly volunteers brightly as he pushes the third man forward. Bossuet waves.

“Do you have any nicknames?” Enjolras asks testily.

“You have no idea,” Bossuet replies solemnly.

Grantaire wants to leave but within five minutes he’s sitting with Bossuet and Feuilly at a small table. Even with the burning reminder of Enjolras’s presence Grantaire can’t suppress the joy he feels at seeing Feuilly.

“I can’t believe you’re both here,” Feuilly is saying with a grin at both of them. He looks good; his skin is several shades lighter than Bossuet but still a far cry darker than Grantaire’s bloodless pallor, and his face and lips are covered in freckles. His hair falls about his head carelessly and Grantaire envies its orange color. “It’s a miracle.”

“Even better, since our ages match up,” Bossuet adds. “Where were you before this?”

Feuilly shrugs. “The only history I don’t have is my own,” he says with a wry smile. Grantaire and Bossuet both hum in sympathy but he waves them off. “It might come back eventually. What about you two?”

“America, both of us,” Grantaire tells him. He pauses to look around the café. Enjolras is sitting not far away and speaking with a curly-haired boy. His expression is smoother now. “But we never saw each other.”

Feuilly follows his gaze. “You seem rather fixated,” he says quietly. Grantaire’s shoulders slump.

“He seems important,” he says quietly. “I wish that I hadn’t met him. I like it here too much.” Feuilly squeezes his hand.

“We can leave, if you’d like,” Bossuet offers in an undertone. Grantaire shakes his head.

Feuilly clears his throat. His expression is uncomfortable. “You’ve fallen into some bad habits,” he says when Grantaire looks at him.

“What did I do?”

“You didn’t do it to Enjolras’s face, so it isn’t really an issue yet,” Feuilly says quietly. “But Enjolras uses ‘they,’ not ‘he.’”

“Fuck,” Grantaire says eloquently and scrubs a hand over his face. “And they have enough reasons to hate me already. Thank you for correcting me.” He takes another look at Enjolras, who has moved to a table by the window. The sunlight is stunning on their hair. “Gods, but they’re gorgeous.”

“You’re getting maudlin,” Bossuet warns. “We should go.”

Grantaire makes a broken sound. “Of course I’m maudlin, _do you know who I am?"_ But he lets Bossuet pull him out of his seat.

They say their goodbyes. Bossuet waves at Joly as they make their way to the door; they’re almost free when Enjolras intercepts them.

“Are you leaving?” They ask with their eyebrows raised.

“R isn’t feeling too well,” Bossuet says with a wide smile. “I’m taking him home.”

 _R_ , Enjolras mouths to themselves, and then they allow the first smile Grantaire has seen. It only lasts a moment. Their face smooths out almost immediately. “It was nice to meet you,” they say formally. “I hope to see you again.” There’s no missing the fact that these sentiments are expressed only to Bossuet.

“I’m sure you will,” Bossuet says, and then he and Grantaire are out of the café and on the street, where the sun is still shining.

*

Grantaire doesn’t see Enjolras for another week and a half after their second meeting. He calls it a small blessing and ignores the raised-eyebrows look that both Bossuet and Feuilly give him. He has a certain amount of autonomy and if he wants to use it to stay away from gorgeous little non-binary individuals, that’s his damn choice.

He’s sitting in another coffee shop, idly reading and drinking tea (he hates the taste of coffee). When the door opens his eyes flick over involuntarily in time to see Enjolras step inside. They have a thoughtful frown on their face. Grantaire looks back down at his his books and feels a burn of self-consciousness.

Enjolras doesn’t see him until after they’ve ordered. They turn around to scan the tables and their eyes alight on Grantaire, who is trying to appear nonchalant. Their expression doesn’t change but they head over without hesitating. Grantaire lays his book facedown on the table.

“I’m at an advantage this time,” they say as they reach his table. “You can’t knock me over if you’re sitting down.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Grantaire retorts, and then nods to the seat across from him. “I promise I won’t tip your chair back with my foot or anything.” Enjolras just blinks at him, and then sits.

“I didn’t think you would,” they say shortly, and then their eyes catch on the book. “May I?” At Grantaire’s nod they pick it up. “Is this in Greek?”

“Yeah.” Grantaire idly traces the rim of his teacup. “It’s just for practice.” (This is a lie. Grantaire knows enough languages to make Enjolras’s head spin.)

Enjolras hums and sets the book down again before fixing their gaze on Grantaire. “How do you know Feuilly?”

Grantaire smiles a bit. He’s impressed with Enjolras’s ability to make an interrogation sound like small talk. “Childhood friends. He and Bossuet and I knew each other when we were very young, though we’ve only seen him a few times since. It was a shock to find him here.”

Gods, but Enjolras’s eyes are pretty. “He’s never mentioned you,” they say bluntly.

Grantaire shrugs. “I’m not very memorable.” (This is also a lie. There are epics written in Grantaire’s name.) Enjolras frowns at him but is cut off from replying when their name (horribly mangled) is called by the barista. They scowl and stand up.

“Joly is very fond of Bossuet,” they say, “and I know Feuilly is very fond of you. I hope you’ll continue to join us– both of you.” Their sincerity is directed entirely at Grantaire this time, but they turn and walk away before Grantaire can even respond. He presses his mouth into a thin line as he watches them collect their drink and leave.

“I hope you won’t,” he mutters petulantly.

*

Life is painful for Grantaire; it comes as no surprise to him that he and Bossuet are indoctrinated into Enjolras’s group of friends. All together they make nine, an irony which makes Grantaire lay his head on the table for a full half-hour when he first notices. He’s fond of the university students, almost against his will, and they in turn welcome him with open arms and do not fault him for being the melancholiest of the group.

He makes an effort to stay away from Enjolras as much as he can, which he’s sure everyone has noticed, but he’s too weary to correct any assumptions. When the whole crew is together he doesn’t look at Enjolras, because he doesn’t want to die and he doesn’t want to take the tiny blond down with him.

*

Feuilly moves in with Bossuet and Grantaire; they fall easily into an old pattern. In the morning, Feuilly will read the newspaper and scan news sites, Bossuet will laugh himself silly over the comics, and Grantaire will embrace his true nature by not getting out of bed.

This move has the unexpected result of putting Enjolras even closer to Grantaire’s orbit, because they are incredibly fond of Feuilly. It nearly gives Grantaire a heart attack the first time he ambles out of his room to find the petit blond standing in the living area and frowning at the bookshelves. They turn around when Grantaire clears his throat.

“You have the oddest collection of books I’ve ever seen,” they declare instantly.

Grantaire just raises an eyebrow. “Did you break into our apartment just to judge our bookshelves?”

“Of course not.” Enjolras scowls. “I’m waiting for Feuilly. We’re going to get lunch together.”

Grantaire idly entertains the though that this is his tragedy. But he dismisses the idea; Feuilly isn’t one for falling in love.

Enjolras has turned back to the books. “I can’t make heads or tails of what you like.”

They do have an appalling number of books; Feuilly has mostly history texts and biographies, Bossuet has a mixed bag of humorous literature, and all of Grantaire’s favorites are hideously depressing. They try to balance their collections with love poetry and astronomy guides, but even Grantaire has to laugh at how predictable their tastes are.

He tries not to appear too impossibly charmed by Enjolras’s phrasing as he wanders into the kitchen. “Everything funny is Bossuet’s, everything true is Feuilly’s, and everything sad is mine.”

“You only read sad books?”

“Yes.”

(On one shelf they have a collection of battered hymn books. None of them ever crack the covers, but they never attempt to give the books away.)

Enjolras appears in the doorway of the kitchen with another frown. “Maybe you need to be cheered up,” they say solidly.

Grantaire meets their unfairly clear eyes for a long moment. “Yeah,” he says, “no.” He pushes off the counter and slips past Enjolras to leave the kitchen without another word.

*

“Enjolras thinks you don’t like them,” Feuilly announces that evening.

Grantaire throws his book across the room.

*

Bahorel proves to be an invaluable ally when it comes to outings with Joly and Bossuet. He laughs louder than all of them; his good humor is never lost; he himself is never lost, because he’s the tallest by a decent four inches.

Most importantly, when Joly and Bossuet decide to go out for tacos at a ridiculous hour of the night, Bahorel readily joins them in Grantaire’s place so they will not miss him. Grantaire enjoys Bahorel’s company, and Joly and Bossuet’s, but he feels an exhaustion lately that has everything to do with the sudden expansion of his circle of friends. His chest often feels like it’s aching. The theater near his apartment never performs tragedies, which makes his lungs burn with disappointment.

He spends more nights at home, alone or with Feuilly humming absentmindedly in the other room. The redhead has been trying to get his hands on a collection of books he helped write several hundred years ago, so he leaves Grantaire in peace. Grantaire stays in his room and reads his own books, or plays music, or goes on solitary walks when the wind is high and the leaves are being blown down the street.

*

“Please come with us.”

Grantaire looks up. Sunlight is streaming through the window and falling perfectly on the pages of his Greek book. He’s sitting on his bed with his back to the wall; pens and notebooks and journals are spread out around him on the clean white sheets. There is a level of peace here that makes him ache.

Feuilly seems determined to shatter it. He’s standing in the doorway with his arms crossed and casting a judgmental eye over Grantaire’s setup.

“I don’t want to,” Grantaire tells him shortly. He lays the book in his lap.

“It will be good for you.”

“Not if Enjolras is there.”

Feuilly scowls at him. “Avoiding them will do you no good,” he says sharply. “You’re just being offensive, honestly.

“Better I offend them than kill them,” Grantaire snaps.

Feuilly drops his arms and comes into the room. He has to step over a pile of clothes and books before he can sit on the end of the bed. “Are you really that afraid of being around them?”

“They feel too important,” Grantaire says. “It’s like meeting Achilles again, or growing up with Vincent, or any of the countless others. They’re going to be intrinsically bound to me in some way and I want to spare them for as long as I can.”

Feuilly presses his hands into the duvet by Grantaire’s feet. “You aren’t usually one for running away from your problems.”

“Maybe it’s time I started.”

“You could sign up for the Olympics if you’re feeling nostalgic.”

“Fuck you.” Grantaire nudges the redhead with his feet. “I’m tired of this, okay?”

Feuilly puts a hand on his ankle. “Grantaire,” he says, “I say this because I love you.” His eyes are very intense. “Get the fuck over yourself. You aren’t doing anyone any favors by hiding out in your room. The world still needs you. There is more to every life you live than one person.”

He stays quiet while Grantaire wipes his eyes. “That doesn’t mean I’ll come out with you,” the dark-haired man eventually rasps.

“You told me to keep you from becoming apathetic,” Feuilly reminds him callously. “Get up.”

“I was wrong,” Grantaire groans. He throws his arms over his face. “This is my tragedy.”

Feuilly sighs. “You’re such a drama queen.”

They go to a bar to meet Enjolras and his trusty friends. Joly’s smile goes wide at the sight of them and Grantaire has to smile back, but he’s itching in his own skin. It’s late March. He needs a drink.

Enjolras isn’t actually there yet so Grantaire doesn’t hesitate to ask for wine. He orders two glasses. 

The first is poured slowly and methodically onto the pavement in the alley behind the bar (he has to sneak outside with it). As it splashes red onto the concrete Grantaire closes his eyes and thinks, _Dionysos, Bakkhos, twice-born, dying god; I offer all of the art I inspired this year to your name._

There is no immediate answer to his prayer. There hasn’t been one for over a thousand years. Grantaire pushes his way back inside the bar with the rim of the second glass already at his mouth.

Enjolras is there already. They aren’t drinking but they are smiling at Courfeyrac, who has one arm slung around their shoulders. Grantaire watches for a moment. He drains the rest of his wineglass and joins Bossuet at another table.

Bossuet and Feuilly are also drinking wine, though neither made an offering. Grantaire doesn’t blame them. The Dionysian festivals were always more important to him, anyway.

There doesn’t seem to be a purpose for the gathering other than to drink and talk, which suits Grantaire just fine. The Ides of March are over; he probably won’t get stabbed. He laughs along with the rest of the room at Bossuet’s jokes and drinks more rich, red wine. He avoids Enjolras for the entire night.

When the first hours of the next day start breaking Grantaire is sitting with Prouvaire. He is wary of the intrepid poet, because his direct influence can be harmful sometimes, and Prouvaire’s eyes are quick and discerning. He’s been matching Grantaire for glasses of wine for the past hour and they are both pleasantly drunk.

“You remind me of my sister,” Grantaire says cheerily after Prouvaire tells him about his writing class. “Always– always writing.”

Prouvaire grins back. “You have a sister?”

“I have _so many_ sisters,” Grantaire replies. He tilts his head to the side. “I miss them.”

Prouvaire’s eyes turn sympathetic. “How long has it been since you saw them?” He asks blearily.

“So long,” Grantaire says fervently. “Years. Hundreds of years. Thousands of years.”

Prouvaire laughs and can’t seem to stop. “That’s a long time.”

Grantaire just nods. “But some of them are here!” He says happily and throws out his arms. “I found my sisters here!”

“Can we– oh shit,” Prouvaire’s elbow slips off the table. “Can we meet them?”

Grantaire squints at him. “You already have,” he says suspiciously. “Clio? Yay high?” He puts one hand up above his head. “Lots of bushy red hair? And Thalia’s got no hair at all but honestly that’s just for the comedic value.”

Prouvaire shakes his head. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re on about,” he says with a grin. “I’ve only been drinking wine.”

“So have I,” Grantaire insists. He starts to laugh. “Don’t tell Thalia. I think I’m drunk.”

“Grantaire?”

Grantaire doesn’t respond at first. He has a natural reaction to alcohol that can take him back centuries; it’s only when a hand lands on his shoulder that he remembers that Grantaire is one of his names.

“Grantaire?”

He looks up carefully. “Gods, you’re beautiful,” he says out loud.

Enjolras’s mouth falls open.

“I won’t mind dying alone this time if that’s the only way to spare you,” Grantaire says honestly. He reaches up to brush Enjolras’s fingers with his own.

Enjolras wrenches their hand away and takes a step back. “Bossuet, Feuilly,” they call. Their voice is admirably level. “Grantaire needs to go home.”

Grantaire stares up at him. Enjolras’s hair is lit from behind by the cheap lights of the bar, and they have never looked lovelier. He doesn’t look away from the blond’s calculating stare until Feuilly and Bossuet pull him up from his chair and out the door.

*

“Kill me.”

Bossuet just sighs. “How much do you remember?”

“Enough to long for the sweet release of death.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I have vague memories of calling Enjolras beautiful to their face and I’m honestly considering fleeing the country.”

Feuilly flops down onto Grantaire’s bed next to him. “I don’t think I’ve seen you that wasted since an actual Bacchanalia,” he says in admiration. “But you didn’t even do anything, just sat there and looked sad.”

Grantaire throws an arm over his eyes. 

“I mean, consider it a small mercy,” Bossuet adds reasonably. “It was entirely possible that you could have tried to sleep with everyone in the bar.”

“How wonderful that I decided to cry over Enjolras’s face instead,” Grantaire snaps.

Feuilly lazily crosses his arms over his head. “They’re coming over tonight, by the way.”

Grantaire rolls onto his front and screams into the pillow.

*

Enjolras’s eyes hold judgment from the moment the door is opened. Grantaire freezes; he had expected Joly to be the first one to arrive. Instead he’s faced with the short, irate blond, who looks absolutely charming in a white button-down.

“I’m sorry,” Grantaire says numbly after a moment.

Enjolras’s gaze doesn’t waver. “I don’t understand you,” they say.

The moment is broken by the arrival of Joly, who cheerfully inserts himself into the conversation without pausing. “I’m excited for this. Is Feuilly as good of a cook as legend claims?”

“Better,” Grantaire says immediately, and he steps back to let both of his friends into the apartment. “It isn’t canonized in legend yet but I’m sure he’d love to add a new title to his praises.”

(Okay, subtlety isn’t Grantaire’s strong point, but he’s banking on the belief that shit like this will go right over their heads.)

Joly beams at him and begins unwrapping a large scarf from around his head. Enjolras is still standing in the doorway with a pensive look on their face. Grantaire reluctantly meets their eyes again and sees a maelstrom of confusion there.

“Come on in,” he says as gently as he can. “The others should be here soon.”

Enjolras’s expression twists even further but they take a step inside. Something in Grantaire’s chest hurts when he considers that this is the only time he’s been truly nice to the blond. Looking down at them, he can’t rationalize his actions to himself.

Prouvaire pulls Grantaire aside early in the evening to show him a poem he had written about the night before. Grantaire can’t decipher the emotions in his heart. His role as a living inspiration has seldom been so personal. He wants to frame Prouvaire’s poem and put it on the wall. He wants to go out in the street and scream and scream until someone brings him art that he can run his dirty hands over. The tips of his fingers are _aching._

The evening passes in a blur for Grantaire. Despite the small premises they number nine, as usual, which hits another uncomfortable spot. True to form, Feuilly makes enough food to sustain a small army and even manages to have his friends eat most of it. By the end of the evening the event has devolved into a loose circle of laughter and conversation that Grantaire follows blindly. He hasn’t been drinking but something long-forgotten is stirring beneath his sternum. Everyone else (save Enjolras, Prouvaire, and Bahorel) is pleasantly buzzed on rich, dark wine brought by Courfeyrac.

When Prouvaire gets up to take his plate to the kitchen Grantaire follows him. He catches Bossuet’s eye for a long moment; Bossuet understands and graces him with a nod.

In the kitchen, the poet is humming to himself. Grantaire doesn’t speak until his friend turns to face him, and even then it is a moment before he can release the words caught in his teeth.

“I want to tell you something,” he says slowly. Prouvaire tilts his head to one side. “Come with me?”

They go out in the hallway and ignore the curious eyes of their friends. Bossuet, bless him, catches everyone’s attention again with a wild rambling tale that is too convoluted to be true; impossibly, characteristically, it is.

The sound of laughter is muted when Grantaire closes the door behind him. Prouvaire is still watching him unabashedly; he crosses his arms over his chest. His white t-shirt is the brightest thing in the hallway. Grantaire realizes with a shock that the poet is the same height as him.

“I love the poem you wrote,” he says quietly. “I love that you wrote it for me, and I want to give you something in return.”

“Okay.” Prouvaire glances around the hallway. “Should we sit?”

“Probably. It’s complicated.”

They end up with their backs to the apartment door. Grantaire likes this; he can look straight ahead if he wants to, instead of at his friend. “I wanted,” he begins slowly, “to tell you a story.”

Prouvaire nods his acquiescence.

“Once upon a time.” (Fuck it, Grantaire’s a traditionalist.) “Once upon a time there were nine muses, and they were born of the gods.” He stops to take a breath; the words are already congealing in his throat. “They were born to encourage art, and to inspire it, and to promote it. Every writer, dancer, musician would pay their respects to the muses before they embarked on a creative journey. Their art was like– fuck, you can’t imagine, it was like nectar. It sustained the muses. All of them.”

He chances a glance sideways. Prouvaire’s dark eyes are wide, but he indicates that Grantaire should continue.

“Divinity isn’t constant,” Grantaire says, and he looks at his own hands. This part still hurts. “People, over time, believe in different gods; it’s inevitable. But the desire, the ability, the _need_ to create art didn’t go away. Even when the gods died–.” He stops. Breathes. “Even when the gods died the muses couldn’t. They kept– they kept coming back. Again and again.”

Prouvaire lays one gentle hand on Grantaire’s wrist. Grantaire wipes at his eyes with his other hand. 

He soldiers on. “They couldn’t help it. When their gods died they just– joined humanity. They did what they could. And their roles changed. The muse as the inspiration of art became literal. They led glorious, impossible, incredible lives, and the masses were inspired to art. Even the smallest comment–.” Grantaire’s voice breaks. “Anything they did or said could be found in art, somewhere, somehow. Even if it was a hundred years later. Even just a single gesture. Their lives started being about this, this inspiration.”

“Grantaire,” Prouvaire whispers.

“Don’t make me stop.” His face is wet. “Their lives were increasingly tailored to match the arts they championed. I’m sure you know the muses by heart, and their respective arts. So you can guess that Erato spent her lifetimes always falling in love. And Calliope spent her life having adventures, and Euterpe is probably doing musicals or something. And– and–.” The words are spilling out of him now. “Urania is always with the astronomers, gods, and now she’s with the scientists because they can get her closer than ever to the stars. And Terpsichore is teaching with the Russian Ballet because where on this earth is there a better place for dance?” He pauses and gulps in air. He has to force out the last words. “And Thalia is comedy, so she lives lives full of laughter! And Clio, gods, she just has to stand and keep watch over history, she’s seen so many terrible things, and–.” His words fail him. He pulls his hands out of Prouvaire’s grip and buries his head in them so he can finally succumb to the tears streaming down his face. “And Melpomene,” he finishes desperately (how fitting that the name should emerge as a sob!). “Melpomene dies again and again because her life is always a tragedy.”

Prouvaire wraps his arms around Grantaire’s shaking shoulders and pulls him close. Grantaire cries and cries against his chest, because he doesn’t ever tell humans this, and this life is making him ache, and Dionysus has not answered his prayers, and– “You wrote me a poem,” he gasps out. “I think it’s beautiful, and it’s making me miss all of the things I’ve had to be.”

His throat is aching with the force of suppressing his ugly sobs, but Prouvaire’s grip is heavy and comforting around his shoulders, and the poet has a hand tangled almost painfully in Grantaire’s hair.

“I’m sorry,” he says shakily. His eyes are burning but the rest of his head feels smooth and calm; he isn’t used to it. Prouvaire’s tight grip on him loosens. Grantaire hasn’t told anyone in over a hundred years. It gets harder and harder to imagine anyone taking him seriously; modern humans are obsessed with science and they have no idea that Grantaire was once considered its patron.

“You don’t have to apologize,” the poet says firmly.

Grantaire slumps back against the wall and swipes at his eyes one last time. “I didn’t mean to unload all of that on you,” he mutters. “You can’t have been expecting that.”

“Was I expecting one of my friends to reveal that he’s literally the muse of tragedy? No, I wasn’t.” Prouvaire settles back against the wall next to him. “I can’t believe you actually liked my poem.”

Grantaire laughs brokenly. “It was great,” he says sincerely. “A lot of the time I don’t have a chance to see stuff I directly inspire.”

“How does that work, exactly?” Prouvaire’s voice is level and curious. It has a soothing effect on Grantaire, who feels like he’s shaking apart from the inside.

“It’s incredibly complex,” Grantaire says, and hesitates. He’s had several thousand years and still hasn’t gotten around to deciphering the threads of intention that make up his lives. His procrastination is the real tragedy.

“You said anything you say or do can inspire art,” Prouvaire prompts. Like Grantaire, he’s staring at the wall in front of them, but he has one arm still slung over the muse’s shoulders.

“Well that’s true.” Grantaire threads his fingers together loosely and lays his hands in his lap. “We used to make it a game, trying to look figure which part of famous plays or poems or stories came from which lives. The more obscure the better.”

“Give me an example.”

Grantaire sighs and pulls his knees up into sharp corners. “I died on the Titanic.”

Prouvaire lets out a short burst of laughter and then claps his free hand over his mouth. “God, I’m sorry!” He says hastily. “But…like…is the movie because of you?”

“You can laugh.” Grantaire allows a small smile. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s from me. I had a really hard period the next time around where I felt like the boat only sunk because I was on it– that everyone else would have lived if I hadn’t been there.”

Prouvaire’s grip on his shoulder tightens.

“But that’s not how it works. My presence didn’t insure a tragedy, it guaranteed that there would be art made from that tragedy. It’s an important distinction. My function isn’t to create tragedy, it’s to inspire art.” He sighs deeply. “That helps sometimes.”

The door at their backs opens suddenly; Grantaire and Prouvaire both topple backwards. The poet manages to catch himself on his hands but Grantaire falls against someone’s legs.

He looks up. Enjolras is staring down at him with one eyebrow raised.

Grantaire scrambles away from the blond and onto his feet. He offers a hand to Prouvaire and hauls the other man to his feet. When he meets Enjolras’s eyes again the line of the blond’s mouth has softened.

“Are you okay?” They ask softly.

Grantaire just nods. His eyes are probably still red.

“Just talking through some personal issues,” Prouvaire says easily. “Is there any wine left?”

Enjolras steps back to let them into the apartment with an unreadable expression on their face.

Prouvaire starts humming “My Heart Will Go On,” which makes Grantaire laugh until he cries again while their friends look on, nonplussed. 

*

Grantaire sees Enjolras the very next day. The blond frowns at him, like they always do, but they don’t hesitate when they say, “I was wondering if you’d like to go get lunch with me.”

“No, thank you,” Grantaire says automatically. “Excuse me.” He walks away without another word and ignores every ancient instinct that screams at him to go back.

*

Feuilly has his face pressed to Grantaire’s chest while Grantaire combs through his friend’s fine red hair. “Do you ever wonder if we’ll ever be able to stop?” He whispers. They’re lying in the white peace of his bed, shut out from the world for once.

Feuilly tightens his arms around him. “No,” he says, quietly but firmly. “And I wouldn’t even if I could.”

“You don’t suffer in the same way that I do,” Grantaire murmurs back. He winds Feuilly’s hair around his fingers. Feuilly presses his face harder into Grantaire’s sternum.

“I have seen war and famine and genocide,” the redhead says, and for all his iron he stays quiet. “I have been forced to stand watch over more death than any other.” He sighs. “There is glory, yes, but there is also so much pain. It is not as personal as yours– my one defense mechanism, I suppose, is that I do not love. But you can’t say that you unequivocally have it worse.”

Grantaire tips his face down until his chin settles on top of Feuilly’s head. “I am sorry,” he says quietly.

“I’ll never go through the agonies you do,” Feuilly continues. “But you haven’t witnessed the atrocities that I have.”

Grantaire runs one hand down the back of Feuilly’s neck in apology. “I am not as good as remembering that as I once was,” he whispers. “I am selfish. Please don’t let me forget. I’m so afraid of apathy.”

Feuilly slides his hands up Grantaire’s shoulder blades. “We were never meant to be so scattered,” he says quietly. “I will be here to ground you, as much as I can, my brother. My sister.”

*

Grantaire wakes up alone several hours later when Bossuet sits on the end of his bed. He looks unusually somber. “Did som’ne die?” Grantaire asks fuzzily.

Bossuet smiles gently at that. “No one is hurt,” he says soothingly. “I just wanted to talk to you about something.”

Grantaire nods groggily and sits up. He rubs his eyes before pushing his hair back and blinking at Bossuet. “Fire away.”

Bossuet grows serious again. “I want to tell Joly.”

Grantaire leans back on his pillows and sighs. “This is an attack. I was asleep.”

“You told Prouvaire.” Bossuet lays his hand on Grantaire’s ankle. “I don’t have an issue with that, but I wanted to ask before telling Joly.”

Grantaire yawns. “I have no objections,” he says sleepily. “Did you ask Feuilly?”

“He was fine with it. He was going to tell Enjolras about himself, but now that we’re here he probably won’t.”

Grantaire drags one hand across his tired eyes. “Let’s never tell Enjolras,” he mutters. “You can tell Joly, I don’t care, but don’t let it get back to Enjolras.”

Bossuet nods with an amused look on his face. “I’ll tell him this afternoon,” he decides, “and I’ll make sure he knows not to tell anyone else.”

*

Joly’s eyes are huge when he walks into their apartment that night. Grantaire and Feuilly are both waiting for him in the living room. He stops short at the sight of them; his fingers tighten around his cane. “Bossuet told me I had to guess who you are,” he breathes. Feuilly smiles encouragingly. Grantaire just crosses his arms. Joly studies the redhead for a long moment. “Clio?” he asks. Feuilly nods and they grin at each other. Bossuet leans against the doorframe with a chuckle.

Then Joly’s eyes flit to Grantaire, who stiffens and draws his shoulders back. Joly’s expression grows somber. His words don’t emerge as a question when he speaks the name: “Melpomene.”

Grantaire clears his throat (something in him burns at the invocation of his true name). He nods.

Joly holds out his arms to both of them. Feuilly moves first, but Grantaire steps forward only a moment later, so they are enfolded into Joly’s hug at the same time. “I can’t believe it,” he whispers. “You’ve done so much– you’ve both done so much.”

Grantaire fists his hand in the back of Feuilly’s shirt.

“I want to know everything,” Joly says when he lets go.

*

Combeferre drinks his coffee completely black, which Grantaire thinks is a travesty. He keeps breaking away from his conversation with Courfeyrac to wrinkle his nose at the other man.

“How have you gotten through life without coffee?” Combeferre finally demands. “Weren’t you ever a student?”

(Shit.)

“I prefer sweeter pursuits,” Grantaire says with a crooked grin. “That should answer both of your questions.”

“Does that extend to cards?” Courfeyrac asks innocently. He’s idly shuffling a deck from one of the shelves at the coffee shop.

“On occasion.” Grantaire takes another sip of his tea and sets it aside. “What do you want to play?”

“Two-handed Euchre,” Courfeyrac says after a moment of deliberation. He grins. “I’m an absolute master.”

Grantaire wins five games in a row.

“Literally how.” Combeferre finally says. He and Courfeyrac are both staring at Grantaire with a new level of respect and fear; Grantaire shrugs and grins.

(He’s had thousands of years. He’s gotten good.)

“Never bet against me,” he tells them gloatingly. “You’re lucky we weren’t playing for money.”

The bell over the door to the café rings and Grantaire glances over to see Enjolras step inside. The blond stops in his tracks when they see Grantaire with Combeferre and Courfeyrac. It must have just begun to rain outside; their fine blond hair is covered in pearlescent raindrops.

“Enjolras!” Courfeyrac calls. “Over here!”

The blond walks to their table slowly. They look stunned, offended, and something in Grantaire’s chest twists sharply.

“Sit down,” Courfeyrac says as he pulls out a chair. “Is it raining? I’ll get you a coffee.”

“Wait,” Combeferre says, and he stands up. “I wanted another drink too.”

Grantaire is left staring at the mess of the cards on the table, alone with Enjolras, who is still standing. He chances a glance upwards.

The blond, for once, is not looking back. Their eyes are fixed determinedly on the ground. “I’ll leave,” they say firmly.

“No, you–.” Grantaire despises himself. “You don’t have to leave. Sit down.”

Enjolras looks up sharply. When Grantaire just shrugs, helplessly, they sink slowly into the chair opposite and shrug their coat off of their narrow shoulders. The collar of their white shirt is still wet. Grantaire looks away.

“I didn’t realize you were so close with Courfeyrac and Combeferre,” Enjolras says boldly after a moment of silence.

Grantaire shrugs again. Then he sighs and leans forward so that his elbows rest on the table and forces himself to meet Enjolras’s eyes. The blond glares back.

“Though it was apparent before now that I’m the only one with whom you have a problem,” the blond adds acidly.

Gods. Grantaire’s been alive since before the English language was created and he still fucks up with ‘who’ and ‘whom.’

“Would you believe me if I said it’s nothing personal?” He asks simply.

Enjolras crosses their arms. “I don’t understand you,” they say. The phrase is familiar by now. “I don’t understand what I did to you.”

“You haven’t–.” Grantaire drags his hands through his hair. “You haven’t done anything to me, I swear,” he finishes finally.

Enjolras’s jaw tightens. “I have to wonder if this is about my gender,” they say icily.

“ _No._ ” Grantaire leans forward abruptly, as though he’s going to reach out for the blond, but he lays his hand facedown on the table instead. “That isn’t an issue with me, and I’m sorry if I’ve given you that impression.”

Enjolras uncrosses their arms and leans forward as well, so that Grantaire is forced to keep eye contact with them. “Can’t you just tell me?” They demand quietly. “If not that, then what?”

Grantaire concentrates on not blinking. He has to say _something._ “I can’t– I just–.” He’s going to start hyperventilating if Enjolras doesn’t level that unbreakable stare at someone else. “I can’t tell you,” he says wretchedly. “It’s not your fault. It’s something I can get over.”

Enjolras’s expression changes abruptly. “Are you frightened of me?” they ask. They sound surprised.

“You’re a head shorter than me.”

Enjolras’s cheeks flame bright red and Grantaire is so, so gone for this miniscule blond. They scowl at him.

Courfeyrac drops abruptly into the seat to the right of Grantaire and slides a mug over to Enjolras. Combeferre sits down a moment later in the last chair with a brand new coffee.

“We felt it was time to interrupt,” Combeferre says smoothly. “Enjolras looked tense.”

Grantaire looks down at the table and wishes fervently to be struck dead, right then. Right at that moment. For any reason. He’s not picky. Nothing happens, of course.

Enjolras isn’t looking at him anymore. The blond is staring down at their coffee mug. Grantaire watches as they methodically add in four spoonfuls of sugar.

*

Grantaire has been affectionately referring to this group as “Melpomene and the Musegetes,” which earns him a smack on the back of his head every time he uses it. He, Feuilly, and Bossuet are camped out in the living room with Prouvaire and Joly in a study session that has since dissolved into question-and-answer hour.

“Do you have a favorite?” Prouvaire asks. Grantaire has his head in the poet’s lap, and he hums thoughtfully.

“Not the Greeks,” Bossuet chimes in without looking up from his textbook. “He has no team pride.” Feuilly laughs.

“I always say Shakespeare, but I feel like that one is obvious,” Grantaire says thoughtfully. “Bossuet and I were actually there with him, a lot of what he wrote was inspired directly by us.”

“Are you serious?” Joly demands. Bossuet grins at him.

“I can’t take credit for every scandalous joke that appears in those plays,” he says modestly. “The man had a way with words.”

Grantaire lets out a longing sigh. Prouvaire starts to laugh.

“If not Shakespeare, then what?” Joly asks curiously.

“Don’t get me wrong, Hamlet and the Scottish play are favorites,” Grantaire says seriously. “Not fun lives to live but great lives to remember and see written down.”

Prouvaire looks down at him sadly.

“But I’ve always had a soft spot for Antigone? Yes, a Greek play,” he says pointedly to Bossuet. “I don’t know. It’s short and sad and it strikes a chord every time I see it performed.”

“Did you live her life too?” Prouvaire asks quietly.

Grantaire closes his eyes. “I don’t remember,” he confesses in an undertone. “My memory is long and full of holes.”

Bossuet leans back on his elbows. “A big problem is that we didn’t stray much from our original culture,” he says. “We almost always live in Europe, and as a result most of our stories are from those countries. I don’t know how widespread our influence is, honestly.”

“We’re hopelessly Eurocentric,” Grantaire says sadly. “There are so many beautiful tragedies from around the world and I don’t know if I had anything to do with them.”

Feuilly speaks up for the first time. “What you have to understand is that we exist solely to inspire art and literature– and science, though not as it’s known now.” He spreads his hands to indicate the entire world. “It isn’t plausible to assume that we’re in some way responsible for every possible work in those fields. Does humanity need us? Yes. Can they still function without us? _Yes._ ”

“So we go along living our lives and knowing that people all around us, who see or hear us or know us, are inspired,” Bossuet says thoughtfully. “It’s a beautiful thought, for the most part. But we have no way of knowing everything we influence. No one dedicates their work to the muses anymore.”

“There’s also a huge gray area with other people’s religions,” Grantaire adds. “I would have made an excellent Judas but I don’t think that was me.”

“Polyhymnia is the exception,” Bossuet says quietly. All three muses look down.

“Stories are told and retold so many times,” Feuilly says wearily after a moment. “And if the inspiration came from a single comment, or one specific gesture, how are we to realize? It’s impossible.”

“Feuilly speaks of inspiration, though that isn’t necessarily his purpose.” Grantaire adds. He finally sits up and leans back against the couch. “He and Urania technically fall more in the science category than the rest of us. He’s generally around to make sure that historians aren’t fucking things up.” He falls silent for a moment. “We don’t know why he’s here, now.”

Feuilly sighs. “Something will come up, I’m sure,” he says quietly. Bossuet hums thoughtfully.

Prouvaire and Joly glance back and forth between all of them. Their expressions are awed and sorrowful. Grantaire sighs heavily and lays back down to put his head in Prouvaire’s lap again.

*

Prouvaire buys a copy of _Titanic_ and makes Grantaire watch it with him to point out all of the inaccuracies. It’s the first time that watching the movie hasn’t made Grantaire feel horribly sad; Prouvaire makes him laugh throughout the entire story, except for the end, where they both fall into a pensive silence. Grantaire watches and Prouvaire just cards his finger’s comfortingly through the muse’s hair. He doesn’t ask any questions about the end, but Grantaire still isn’t sad, for which he is grateful.

*

Grantaire is walking down the windy street when a flash of gold catches the corner of his eye. He turns and sees Enjolras rocking back and forth on their heels in front of a bookstore; their nose is firmly stuck in the large blue book in their hands. Grantaire takes a deep breath and crosses the street.

“You’re supposed to wait until you’re out of the bookstore before you start reading,” he says as lightly as he can when he’s a few feet away. Enjolras looks up, startled, and then lowers their eyebrows at the sight of him.

“I was eager to get started,” they say slowly.

“I can tell.” Grantaire puts his hands in his pockets. His ears are cold, and Enjolras’s hands are very pale, so he takes another deep breath and says, “I was wondering if you’d like to go get lunch with me.”

Enjolras closes the book with a snap and stares at him. Just when Grantaire is about to rescind the offer they nod, once. Their eyes are cautious.

Grantaire takes them to one of his favorite diners a few streets away. “As far as I’m concerned,” he says, pointing out the awning, “this is on the second tier of good restaurants. But they serve breakfast all day, which is a huge point in their favor.” Enjolras almost looks amused.

“We passed another diner barely a minute ago,” they mention. The conversation is tentative. “Is there a reason you passed that one up?”

Grantaire scoffs. “That one isn’t even third tier,” he says dismissively. Enjolras smiles, barely, for a fleeting moment. Grantaire holds open the door to let them inside and tries to not let heart shine out from his eyes. He’s been murdered countless times but nothing kills him like Enjolras’s expressions.

They sit down at one of the shiny tables. Enjolras shrugs off their black pea coat; underneath they’re wearing a light blue button-down. Grantaire unwinds his scarf from around his neck and casts about for something to say.

“What book did you get?”

“I actually got three.” Grantaire grins as Enjolras ducks down to pull the books from their bag. “The one I was reading is something Feuilly suggested to me– it’s a biography of Alexander Hamilton, it’s fascinating.”

“I remember him talking about that one,” Grantaire says with a laugh. Enjolras sets the blue book on the table and pulls out a smaller white and pink one.

“This one is for a class,” they say. They wrinkle their nose and set the book on the table. Grantaire doesn’t even look at it; he’s too busy watching their delicate hands presenting a small red-and-silver novel. He’s broken out of his reverie with a snap when he recognizes the cover.

“Antigone?” He asks quietly. He feels a lump in his throat.

Enjolras is watching him with an odd expression. “I saw it on your shelf,” they explain. “I realized I had never read it.”

Grantaire hesitantly holds out a hand. Enjolras hands over the book and sits back to watch him with keen eyes. Grantaire fans through it loosely and then stops on a random page. The words are familiar and cold in his head. “’You have to have a private confrontation with destiny and death,’” he reads out loud, and then has to set the book down. “It’s a pretty heavy play,” he says. He can’t stop staring at the cover. “But this is a good translation.”

“Like I said,” Enjolras says carefully, “I saw this one on your shelf.” They reach forward and take it back.

Grantaire clears his throat. “It’s one of my favorites,” he mutters.

Enjolras arranges their books into a neat stack and then turns their blue eyes on Grantaire. “Why did you ask me out to lunch?” They ask.

Grantaire rubs at the back of his neck. “You’re the most direct person I’ve ever met,” he comments.

“And you’re probably the most ambiguous,” Enjolras shoots back. They raise their eyebrows in victory.

The waitress brings orange juice for Grantaire and cranberry juice for Enjolras. They both pause to take a sip. Enjolras sets their glass down first and waves a hand at Grantaire to indicate that he should keep talking.

“My behavior towards you has been rude,” Grantaire says simply. “I’m fixing it.”

“You’re not going to tell me why.”

“Nope.”

“Fine.” Enjolras takes another sip of their bright red drink without breaking eye contact. “What’s good here?”

They order, and eat, and the conversation is more limited but Grantaire is relieved at how civil he can be. 

They each pay for their own food and are back on the street a few minutes later. Enjolras frowns at the sporadic raindrops hitting their face and pulls their back closer to their side.

“I’m going this way,” Grantaire says with a gesture to the left. Enjolras nods.

“I’ll see you later,” they say. “Have a nice day, Grantaire.”

Grantaire takes a few steps down the street, but then he can’t stop himself from turning and watching Enjolras walk away until they disappear around a corner. Hopefully, now, it won't seem as suspicious if Grantaire keeps trying to avoid them.

*

“I want to tell Bahorel,” Grantaire announces one night while he and Feuilly are making dinner. The redhead shoots him a startled look but doesn’t object.

So they do.

Bahorel responds by buying the most expensive wine he can and inviting the muses to get smashed with him, which is perhaps Grantaire’s favorite response so far.

*

The university students have exams and Grantaire spends an increasing amount of time in bed again with a stack of books. He’s been toying with the idea of taking classes again, but he doesn’t know if he has the energy. Living as a master tragedian often leaves him in fits of melancholy that make it hard to face the world.

He misses his group of friends, which is new, but they make an effort to get together often. Today he’s alone until Joly comes to visit in the late afternoon.

“I need a break,” is all he says before he lands facedown on the bed and throws his cane onto to the floor. Grantaire shifts over accommodatingly.

Joly dozes for a while while Grantaire reads. After some time, he rolls over and pokes Grantaire in the ribs. 

“Hmm?”

“How often do you all find each other?” Joly asks curiously.

Grantaire sighs and lays down his book. “Not often. We haven’t been together as a set of nine since Ancient Greece, actually.”

Joly frowns. “That’s sad.”

“We’re kind of in pairs,” Grantaire says. “Bossuet and I, Feuilly is usually with Urania, Euterpe and Terpsichore, etc. It’s pretty unusual to go a lifetime without finding at least one other, but generally it’s not more than one.”

“But there are nine of you.”

“Yeah.” Grantaire shuffles down so that he’s lying on his back beside Joly. “Polyhymnia is the odd one out. She– well, none of us have seen her since Ancient Greece, either.”

Joly makes a distressed sound.

“Yeah.” Grantaire rubs at his eyes. “None of us like it.”

“At least you get to see the others sometimes.”

“That’s true,” Grantaire concedes. “I see Bossuet a little more than everyone else, but not by much. It’s always nice when we’re together.”

“That must have a huge effect on the art around.”

Grantaire stays silent for a long moment. “I’m pretty worried about that, actually,” he says quietly. “Stuff does happen when we get together, and it isn’t always good. Three together is rare. So we have to ask ourselves, what’s going to happen? Tragedy, comedy, and history, in the same city. What’s going to happen?”

“What’s happened before?”

“It’s seems like we’re often in war together.” Grantaire sighs. “That’s usually Feuilly and I, and Calliope. Tragedy, history, epic poetry. Sometimes Erato– that’s love poetry. Shit goes down when she’s around.”

Joly smiles. Then his expression falls again. “Sometimes I can’t comprehend everything you must have been through,” he says quietly. “I’m studying for exams and you’re– you’re worried about the course of human history.”

“Don’t worry,” Grantaire says, gives him a nudge. “Your memory is probably better than mine. I don’t remember a lot of it, there’s a too much.”

Joly smiles, appeased. A few minutes later he falls asleep again, and Grantaire finds that he doesn’t even feel bad about lying.

*

Grantaire isn’t even with Bahorel when he gets drunk this time; he’s by himself, everyone else is still studying, and something wild and feral is snarling underneath his sternum. He can’t lose himself in a frenzy but he can drink enough wine to imitate it.

Muses, for whatever reason, can’t get blackout drunk. Grantaire knows. He’s tried. His tolerance is much higher than anyone else’s. So though he’s been steadily drinking entire bottles of wine for the entire evening, he manages to make his way all the way back to his apartment without falling off a bridge or into a ditch.

(Surprisingly few of his deaths have been related to alcohol, which he counts as a victory.)

Getting up the stairs of his building is an epic worthy of Calliope, he thinks. His vision is swimming. He keeps having to stop and laugh at his own clumsy movements before he can continue. Gods, but he feels divine for the first time in ages. His bruises must be glowing gold with ichor.

He slumps against the door the the apartment with a crooked grin and knocks messily. He knows better than to attempt to use the key, and besides, shouldn’t someone be there to welcome the great muse home?

When Feuilly opens the door Grantaire falls inside and barely manages to keep his feet. He’s reeling and smiling as he straightens up and cries, “Clio! My dear! The gods are stirring tonight.”

Feuilly stares back in him in alarm. Someone behind them says, “Grantaire?”

He turns and is pleased to find his whole group of nine scattered around the living room with their textbooks and notebooks. “My loves,” he says, and manages a lopsided bow. “It is simply splendid to see you again, I didn’t know my sisters were entertaining tonight.”

“Grantaire,” Bossuet says warningly.

“Thalia,” Grantaire says back in the same tone, and then dissolves into laughter. Everyone is watching him fearfully and he is drunk on their expressions. This feels like an incredible pantomime of theater and he so loves to perform; muses, he’s found, have a difficult time creating their own art. It’s been years since he stopped trying.

“Oh, I adore this evening,” he says expressively. Then his eyes catch on Enjolras and he stills.

The blond is watching him with their mouth dropped open; their eyes are confused. Grantaire drinks in the sight of them and feels as though his hands are glowing.

“Hi,” he says softly. “Hello. You’re beautiful. It’s wonderful to meet you.” He gives his widest, six-teeth smile. “My name is Melpomene.”

*

“We had to tell them.”

Grantaire doesn’t look up.

“Grantaire, you didn’t see it,” Bossuet says angrily. “You had completely lost yourself and _everyone in the room but those three_ knew why. We couldn’t keep them in the dark any more.”

“I would have been fine,” Grantaire says gratingly, “if Courfeyrac had found out. I would have been _fine_ if Combeferre had found out. But my _one request_ throughout all of this was that _Enjolras was not supposed to find out._ ”

“Well now they know,” Feuilly snaps. “All three of them. You announced your true name and then keeled over backwards, what were we supposed to do?”

“Tell them I was drunk?”

“Like I said, everyone knew what was going on but Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac knew what was going on,” Bossuet says. “They could tell the rest of us knew something, and they were _worried_ about you!”

“I have a headache,” Grantaire says quietly. “Will you please go away?”

Bossuet hesitates, but Feuilly nods and stands up. They both move towards the door. Grantaire finally raises his head just before they step out; they stop and look back at him. His eyes are burning.

“I just wanted one part of my life I could control,” he says wearily. Bossuet’s expression falls but Feuilly pulls him out of the room.

Grantaire gets slowly back in bed and pulls the duvet up over his head.

*

Combeferre comes into his room in the early evening and doesn’t flinch when Grantaire orders him out. He sits on the edge of Grantaire’s bed with a tray in his hands. “You need to eat,” he says chidingly.

Grantaire glares at him.

“I brought you tea,” Combeferre adds, and holds out a white mug. “It has honey in it, Feuilly said that’s how you like it.”

Grantaire grudgingly pulls himself into a sitting position and accepts the mug. The tea is perfectly made. He breathes in the steam for a long moment while Combeferre helps himself to one of the crackers on the plate.

“I’ve been having a great conversation with Feuilly,” he says conversationally. “He knows a lot; I wish I would have found out before my history final.”

Grantaire sips his tea again. He reaches for one of the apple slices on the plate.

“Are you ashamed of being a muse?” Combeferre asks.

“Gods. You’re as bad as Enjolras,” Grantaire grumbles. The name burns in his throat.

Combeferre just shrugs.

“I’m not ashamed,” Grantaire says. He feels angry now. “Why would you ask me that?”

“I’m trying to figure out why you didn’t tell us,” Combeferre replies calmly. “You told everyone but Courfeyrac, Enjolras, and I. I know you hold us in high regard, so I’m wondering why you would have felt like you needed to hide such a crucial part of yourself.”

“Why do you believe us?” Grantaire asks abruptly.

Combeferre allows himself a small smile. “I’ve always wanted to believe that there are things operating in the world that we can’t explain,” he says. “There’s overwhelming evidence in your favor, and I have no reason to doubt your word.” He watches Grantaire for a long moment while the dark-haired muse takes another apple slice. “Enjolras and Courfeyrac believe you too, you know.”

Grantaire rubs at his eyes and eat a cracker.

“Calliope once told me that she’s met someone through several lifetimes,” he says after a long moment of silence. Combeferre listens. “They kept showing up. And she didn’t know how she knew it was the same person, but she knew.”

He takes a sip of tea.

“We can usually tell when we meet important people. We’ve had thousands of years of practice. And Enjolras feels familiar, and Enjolras feels important.” He meets Combeferre’s eyes as squarely as he can. “Combeferre, I’m the muse of tragedy. There’s a high likelihood that I’m going to make them die.”

Combeferre flinches.

“Would I have ever told you and Courfeyrac? Probably. Would I have told Enjolras?” He shakes his head vehemently. “Never. I thought maybe– if I kept them out of it– they would be okay.” He wipes at his eyes again. “Bad things happen to me and people around me,” he says. He feels exhausted, though he’s been in bed all day. “I just wanted to spare them.”

“I have a feeling,” Combeferre says, “that if you and Enjolras share a destiny it’s going to happen no matter what you do.” He shrugs. “And if that’s the case, why make yourself miserable in the meantime?”

Grantaire stares at him.

“I can’t tell you what to do,” Combeferre says. “You’re going to outlive me in the next life, and the next, probably as long as art exists in this world. You’re going to help humanity going forward in a way that I can only dream of, so the best I can do is to help you.” He calmly eats another cracker. “I think it would help you to talk to Enjolras.”

Then he stands up, though he leaves the tray on Grantaire’s bedside table. He leaves the room without another word. Grantaire stares straight ahead, unseeing, long after the tea in his mug has gown cold.

*

The wind is blowing leaves down the street past Grantaire’s feet, as though he’s walking through a river of air. His curls tumble around his ears. He keeps his head down as he walks with his hands in his pockets. The night is cold around his shoulders and against the skin of his face. His strides are long and determined. He looks like a man walking to his death, and he fully expects a novel about it to hit stores next year.

It isn’t long before he finds himself at the bottom of an apartment building he’s never visited before; he had to text Courfeyrac for the address. There’s a buzzer to the right of the door. He scans the registry until he finds a single name in severe script and presses the corresponding button.

“Hello?”

Grantaire smiles at his shoes, helplessly charmed by just their voice. “It’s me,” he says. “Grantaire.”

The intercom is silent. Then the lock on the door clicks open, and Grantaire quickly pushes his way inside.

Climbing the stairs makes his chest feel tight but he doesn’t stop. He keeps his eyes fixed upwards. Earlier than he expected he finds himself at the right door and he knocks on it gently, once, with just the tips of his white knuckles.

It swings open. Enjolras regards him severely for a moment. They’re wearing a black sweater with sleeves that kiss the edges of their palms, and their blond curls are falling wildly over their forehead.

“Hi,” Grantaire says. He can’t help but smile slightly.

Enjolras doesn’t return the sentiment. “Combeferre told me about your conversation,” they say quietly.

“Then I don’t need to say anything do I?” Grantaire asks. “You know why I was avoiding you. You know it’s dangerous.”

Enjolras nods and crosses their arms over their narrow chest. “Why are you here?” They ask, and they lower their golden eyebrows.

Grantaire reaches inside his coat and pulls out a battered silver-and-red copy of Antigone. He holds it out. “It has a lot of my notes in it that I think you’d enjoy,” he says softly.

Enjolras looks at the book for several moments before they look up at Grantaire. Then, impossibly, they start to smile.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspiration taken loosely from [this post](http://kvothes.tumblr.com/post/107327984620/imagine-les-amis-as-the-nine-muses-enjolras-is), though I very clearly changed a lot of it.
> 
> I have a lot of ideas about the muses that didn't make it into this story (like gender stuff, stories they inspired, etc.); if you want to know more just drop me an ask! As ever, I can be found on tumblr as [kvothes.](http://kvothes.tumblr.com) I also having a writing inspiration sideblog at [sweetprincet.](http://sweetprincet.tumblr.com/tagged/x)
> 
> I have a tag for this story which includes a lot of the people I think Grantaire was and stories he inspired. You can find it [here.](http://kvothes.tumblr.com/tagged/a_private_confrontation)


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